


Entertaining Angels Unaware

by finefeatheredfriend



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Father-Son Relationship, Guilt, Religious Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:47:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22275844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finefeatheredfriend/pseuds/finefeatheredfriend
Summary: While trying to escape a bounty hunter, Arthur encounters a familiar face that he cannot seem to place. He realizes he must confront his past to find peace.In the wavering light of the half-moon, Arthur could barely make out the sign hung next to the church’s broad wooden doors:“Valentine ChurchRev. Isaac HamptonAll welcomePrayer books provided”
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Isaac, Eliza/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 5
Kudos: 58





	Entertaining Angels Unaware

**Author's Note:**

> I happened to notice the name on the church in Valentine in-game and decided to run with it for a quick short story since I felt like writing some mild angst.

Arthur Morgan was not a religious man. Never had been and as far as he was concerned, he never would be. That said, with a bounty hunter crawling up his ass with a dead or alive warrant, he couldn’t think of a better time to find God, or at least visit Him in one of His churches. Panting, he half-darted, half-crawled toward the church, weaving through gravestones and trying to hear the tell-tale sound of footsteps behind him in the hazy night. Somewhere nearby he heard a rifle cock and his heart skipped a beat as he snuck around the side of the church and then skittered toward its front, praying to a God he didn’t really believe in that his own bootsteps wouldn’t give him away.

In the wavering light of the half-moon, Arthur could barely make out the sign hung next to the church’s broad wooden doors:

**“Valentine Church**

**Rev. Isaac Hampton**

**All welcome**

**Prayer books provided”**

_Isaac._

That name always stung to see put down on paper, or in this case, painted on a sign. Shoving away the dull grief that pounded in his chest like an old injury, Arthur tugged on one of the wooden doors, relieved when it opened without resistance. Still panting from his mad dash into Valentine to try to shake the bounty hunter, Arthur put his hands on his knees when the door closed behind him, taking deep gulps of air to calm and steady himself.

A young man, no more than eighteen, rose from one of the empty pews in surprise and turned to look at the intruder. He had a thick, leather-bound Bible in his hand, but he wasn’t holding it like a weapon. He was not, in fact, behaving at all as though a wanted criminal had just set foot into his church, aside from his face showing mild surprise at having an unexpected visitor.

“Mister,” Arthur greeted, surprised to encounter someone so young in the church this late in the evening. He held shaking hands up to show that he was not a threat. “Sorry to, uh, barge in, I just, uh…look, I got a man after me, I don’t expect you to understand but…well, I ain’t ready to meet my Maker yet, friend. Not today, and not on the end of a rope or by way of a bullet. Please.”

“All are welcome in God’s house for respite, sir,” the young man said solemnly. “Please, take your hat off.”

Fumbling, Arthur obeyed immediately, clutching the old leather hat in hands stained with dirt from staggering and falling in the mud trying to evade death.

“Sorry, partner.”

“You can call me ‘Reverend.’ Or just ‘Isaac,’ if you prefer.”

“‘Reverend’?” Arthur let loose a skeptical half-laugh. “You’re, uh, kinda young for that, aintcha?” The young man gave a beatific smile and nodded.

“Well, the last reverend died suddenly. I was raised in the seminary and when I moved to Valentine, the people here accepted me pretty quickly once Reverend Williams passed. I’m young, sir, but I assure you I know the Word of God.”

“Hmm,” Arthur hummed, frowning slightly. “You know, you, uh, you remind me of someone. Can’t put my finger on it.”

“Well, we are all God’s children, I’m sure some of us do share a similarity,” the man said dryly. Arthur chuckled. He liked this man almost immediately. “Come, sit with me. I was just about to have some dinner.”

“Oh, well, alright then,” Arthur agreed, surprised at the hospitality and deeply grateful for it. He kept glancing nervously at the door behind him, but no one stormed in. With a knowing look, the reverend said,

“No worries, friend. This is hallowed ground. Even bounty hunters respect that there is still sanctuary to be found within a church.” Arthur huffed a laugh.

“Do they? I never knew,” he muttered as he ran his hand over the railing of one of the pews, distinctly remembering dragging a man out of a church service for a fifty dollar bounty six months before in Utah. “So, you, uh, you ain’t worried about sharin’ a meal with a wanted fugitive?” Arthur asked as he followed the reverend to the little apartment attached to the side of the church building.

“God has a plan for me, sir. He’s got a plan for you too. If that plan involves robbing me, I will tell you, my tithe box is pretty light.” The reverend stared at Arthur testily for a moment, but Arthur just shrugged.

“Ain’t here to rob ya, preacher. Just tryin’ not to get shot,” he laughed self-deprecatingly.

“Good then. Have a seat, Mr…?”

“Morgan. Arthur Morgan,” the big outlaw admitted, taking the proffered chair. Arthur met the young man’s eyes and felt that same distinct impression he had before, that he knew this kid from somewhere. The reverend’s eyes were a gentle honey brown, not as sharp as Arthur’s, but still intense beneath thick caterpillar brows. The bridge of his nose was broad but tapered to a light point creased in the middle like the nose of a deer or a wolf. His hair was a haze of brownish-red locks piled atop his head and around his neck, not neatly cut, but plainly clean and brushed often. His clothing was simple, a homespun cotton shirt tucked into thick corduroy pants. He wore no collar, but Arthur wasn’t even sure preachers wore collars if they weren’t Catholic; Reverend Swanson did, but that was only when he was sober.

“So Mr. Morgan. Aside from escaping from death and dismemberment, what brings you to Valentine?” the reverend asked, serving up a large cut of chicken breast onto a plate with some vegetables and setting the plate in front of Arthur, who picked up a fork in one big hand, pausing before he put the chicken in his mouth, cheeks reddening.

“I, er…”

“No need to say grace, Mr. Morgan, I was praying when you joined me. God knows I am grateful for this meal. I reckon you have more than that to be grateful for this evening.” Arthur chuckled and took a bite of chicken, chewing and talking around it. He realized suddenly that he was ravenous.

“Well, I travel from here to there, lookin’ for jobs,” Arthur answered his question evasively.

“And stagecoaches?” the reverend asked in a light tone, earning him a sharp look from Arthur.

“Yeah, and stagecoaches. Mouthy preachers too, when I can find ‘em.” The reverend raised his hands, one holding a fork and the other a knife, in surrender, laughing mildly.

“It isn’t my place to judge, Mr. Morgan, only to guide.”

“Yeah, well, last thing I need’s advice from some kid,” Arthur griped. He wiped his mouth with his bandana and stood, his chair stuttering back with a loud screech when the backs of his thighs pushed against it. “Think I’ll risk the bounty hunter, thank you for your time, preacher.”

“Hold on a moment, Mr. Morgan, please. You haven’t finished eating. Please. I could use the company, and I imagine you could use the rest.” Arthur stared at him over one shoulder, deliberating. Finally, he sat again, picking up his fork and jabbing a spoonful of peas and carrots into his mouth. “Besides. Wisdom can come from the most unlikely places. Stay, share some wisdom with me, Mr. Morgan, if you have any.” Arthur laughed at that.

“You’re somethin’ else, preacher.”

“So I’ve been told,” the young reverend countered with a smirk that…Christ, where the hell did he know this kid from? Arthur wondered again, disconcerted.

The outlaw and the reverend shared their meal, the reverend filling most of the conversation with anecdotes about his flock, getting up to bring them a crock of beer to share. Despite his young age, the reverend’s voice was deep and authoritative, and he was oddly charismatic, even as he recounted a Bible story Arthur listened to with only mild interest.

Arthur shared only the barest of details about himself with the reverend, casual small talk that wouldn’t get the reverend in trouble if a lawman interrogated him about Arthur later. And amidst all of this comfortable conversation, Arthur still couldn’t shake the feeling he had met this young man before.

“You ever been up around Helena?” Arthur asked him during a lull in conversation, frowning. The reverend gave a facial shrug, shaking his head.

“Not as far as I know. Most of my life not spent here was spent in Colorado. Don’t know much about where I came from before I moved there. My mother was killed by some robbers when I was just a toddler. I don’t remember her much. I just remember my grandfather finding me, half-starved. He took me from there, brought me to the seminary in Boulder.”

“Surprised you’d help a feller like me given what happened to your mother,” Arthur observed around a bite of berry cobbler the reverend had brought out. The sweet pastry felt increasingly dry in his mouth, forming a lump in his throat that he couldn’t quite seem to clear no matter how hard he swallowed and despite the beer that the reverend let flow freely as they ate and conversed.

“Hmm,” the reverend hummed a noncommittal noise. “I was taught to forgive, Mr. Morgan. I was taught that even a bad man can become good if he chooses to. Those men who killed my mother, I’ll never know if they were sorry for what they did. I can’t control their choices. But I can control mine.”

“But don’t it make you angry? Knowin’ some bastard killed your mother?” Arthur grated out in a tone that was rougher and more hateful than he had intended. There were too many old wounds being picked at tonight, too many reminders of his past, of the mistakes he had made. And this kid unsettled him, put him on edge.

“Of course it makes me angry, Mr. Morgan. But anger won’t bring my mother back. Lashing out at the world won’t right the wrongs that have been done to me. I can only be grateful that my grandfather took me away from all that.”

“What about your daddy?” Arthur asked, knowing he was asking too many personal questions but not caring given the hellish trip down memory lane this whole encounter was forcing him to experience.

_Those two graves. One large, one small. The dirt not even packed by the time he rode up…_

“Never met him. My grandfather told me that my father…he wasn’t the best of men. So he hid me from him, let him think I was dead. My father was an outlaw. A gunslinger.” A sudden shock pierced Arthur’s being and the color drained from his face.

“A good for nothin’,” Arthur finished for him, his hand trembling when he grabbed his cup to take a deep gulp of beer.

_The wet, cold sensation of moisture seeping into his jeans when he sunk to his knees at Eliza’s grave…_

“One of God’s children,” the reverend argued softly.

_The tearing feeling in his throat as he screamed until he coughed up blood…_

“A worthless bastard,” Arthur snarled, realizing with a sudden shock that a tear had slid down his cheek. Taking a shaky breath, he smeared the tear away, standing and clearing his throat. “Sorry, preacher. I…dunno what came over me,” he lied.

_The dull, empty feeling after he tracked down the men who had done it…_

Reverend Isaac Hampton stared at Arthur with gentle eyes. Her eyes. Eliza’s eyes. He could see it now and it felt like the world had fallen out from underneath his boots.

“I always wondered what happened to him. My father,” Isaac admitted.

_The jolt as one of the murderers slammed a fist adorned with Eliza’s ring into Arthur’s chin, leaving two bone-deep slices that he barely felt as he knocked the man to the ground and slit his throat..._

“He changed. And not for the better,” Arthur told him in a voice filled with quiet agony.

_The warmth of their blood splattering his hands and his face as he slaughtered them…_

“You asked for wisdom from me. Here’s your wisdom, son,” Arthur told him, voice shaking over that last word, “don’t be like me.”

Could Isaac see it too? Could he see that he had his father’s nose? Did he realize that those long arms and wide hands were Arthur’s? Did he know that where he had sewn kindness, Arthur had reaped only pain?

Unable to stand looking at his son any longer, Arthur picked up his hat, stumbling out of the room and back through the chapel of the church, fighting back the first tears he had shed in nearly twenty years. He was nearly to the door when Isaac’s voice called after him.

“‘Do not be forgetful of hospitality, for through this, some have entertained angels unawares,’” the reverend quoted. His voice was trembling too, his baritone voice an octave higher. Arthur turned back – how could he not?

Relief flooded Arthur as he looked at this young man, really looked at him for who he was. It was not the life Arthur would have chosen for him, but it was so much better than the alternative. For his son to not only be alive, but to have not become the same as him, to have a different life…it felt as though the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders.

“Please,” Isaac said tenderly, his voice so quiet Arthur had to strain to hear it from across the chapel. “Stay. Tell me about my mother.” Arthur swallowed hard, glancing at the door, knowing that nearly certain doom awaited him on the other side of it, no matter how long he stayed here. He might as well make the most of his time.

_The soft feeling of her hand against his cheek…the warm press of her lips to his own…the squirming bundle he hardly knew how to hold…_

Arthur walked back across the chapel toward the young man who was so obviously his son that he didn’t know how he hadn’t realized it immediately. He laid a hand on Isaac’s shoulder and smiled fondly.

“Her name was Eliza…”


End file.
